


(i'm letting go) of old claws

by ghostwit



Series: extremities [4]
Category: One Piece
Genre: By accident this time!, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dream Sequence, Gen, How the FUCK do I tag this. Uh., Minor Injuries, Parallels, Self-Harm, Weird vibes. If this makes you anxious I have done my job.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: “I’m asleep,” Law says, drawing his knees up to his chest and heaving a breath that sputters out like liquid.He feels like his clothes don’t fit, he’s smaller than this, even with the rough press of denim fast along his calves and thighs, the fabric of his hoodie just barely hanging loose over the cuffs.
Relationships: Donquixote Doflamingo & Trafalgar D. Water Law, Not in a friendly way just like. They are interacting., Penguin & Trafalgar D. Water Law
Series: extremities [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615180
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	(i'm letting go) of old claws

“I’m asleep,” Law says, drawing his knees up to his chest and heaving a breath that sputters out like liquid. He feels like his clothes don’t fit, he’s smaller than this, even with the rough press of denim fast along his calves and thighs, the fabric of his hoodie just barely hanging loose over the cuffs. 

“Yeah,” a boy sits on the handlebars of the bike Law’s tucked into, filthy, matted hair and hands that streak the metal with fuliginous smudges as he shifts, each impatient kick of his feet jolting Trafalgar’s knees against his lip and chin. The denim is rough, abrasive against his face and Law grimaces. He looks no older than twelve, thirteen, and Law, very pointedly does not want to be here. He curls up a little more so his stubble rasps against his legs, leans back against the seat to press his hands to the moist film around the _Bon Chari_ , the bubble happily supporting his weight, and the boy snickers, dark glasses and lopsided grin. _Fu fu fu_.

“Are you scared?” He asks, and he’s all tittering fingers (so like himself in youth, he absently notes), stubby digits rising and falling fast, waves in open air, and easy, mocking nods, head rolling around on his shoulders like it’s loose. 

“Yeah,” Law says, faint and high and goading, a mimic of his earlier intonation, and it makes the kid scoff, pouting a little. A cigarette’s materialized between his teeth and he puffs out a breath of smoke that doesn’t quite smell like anything, actually. There’s colors passing absently behind him, a Sabaody Archipelago that’s all triangles and squares and overblown circles, the bike sliding happily through the air, though neither of them are pedaling. 

“Come on,” the brat says, drawing in another deep lungful of smoke around his grimace and leaning forward to pry Law’s knees apart, “I’m bored.” Trafalgar doesn’t hesitate in driving the heel of his boot into his questing palm. He yelps like a dog, hard edge of a foot driving skin yield into bone, rounding out into a childish grumble. The kid frowns, deep and parabolic, and Law ignores the icy spike of paranoia tearing through his torso, the niggling familiarity tickling along his ears like the melt of an ice cube. Law’s own fingers twitch, clenching until he can press their tips together through the bubble, the articulation of the whorls of the pads on each tattooed finger made fuzzy and unclear through the damp tegument. 

There’s too much smoke, their faces barely visible even in the scant distance, and the brat’s wagging his hands to disperse it, almost as if surprised it would dare exist in his space when it fails to continue to be useful and _fun._ He turns, cheeks puffed, and Law can see blonde curls at his nape, catching the light that filters through the haze between them.

Law reaches out to touch him, he’s asleep, after all, _yeah,_ who cares?

The boy starts, drawing backwards with a jolt and furrowed brows. "Huh?" he says, this time swatting Law's hands away. Oh, he's got an earring. Trafalgar props an elbow up on his bent knees to finger his own, feels for the gap between the two hanging tight to his lobes. The kid just stares on, a little snarl forming with the corner of his thin lips, arced gums flecked sanguine peeking from behind the cherry of his cigarette.

“Fuck’s your problem?” Law can’t tell whose mouth the words fell from, abrasive and nervous, cobbles knocking hard against young, loosened teeth, but they’re both baring fangs. The kid crawls forward again, brandishing pinkened knees and rough elbows, and why, _why_ is he so cold? He’s reaching up to net his fingers into Law’s grimace, hooking filthy fingers to drive into the velvet of Law’s inner cheeks and Law is so fucking _cold_ , all the way down to his fingertips where they clench _,_ digits in his mouth searing heat so torrid it’s like a brand, and he wonders absently if there’s steam hissing up around where flesh meets flesh. 

He’s laughing, loud, _fu fu fu_ , and Law’s veins are sluggish with ice and lead, wanting to snap down, anything, anything, but failing. The boy’s face is so close that all he can see is his own reflection--wide eyes and yielding tongue, face splotched the same white as that of his eyes, stark against dark skin--and he reaches out with a curled thumb to snatch the cigarette from between his lips, easing it between his teeth and then _past_ when his lips stay limp, crumpling the still-lit stick into his tongue. 

* * *

Trafalgar’s mouth tastes of bitter, dry ash when he wakes up, heat still curling around his tongue and snaking down his throat in curling rollicks that bring his hands to his mouth (the brunts of which are slick with blood, keratin shredding the skin of his palms with his insistent scraping) to suppress shuddering coughs. There’s tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, bile rising in his throat to meet the ghost impressions of cigarette smoke, and his duvet lies in a rumpled pile on the floor of his captain’s quarters. The dream is sharp, but slips fast, just tittering fingers and the condescending rolls of the skull of a half-starved child with skinny shoulders.

Penguin catches him on his way to piss, boiler suit unzipped and half-removed from the waist-up to flop around his legs, making him stumble on his way to greet Law in the kitchen.

“Captain,” he smiles around the word and it comes out on a mutter as he reaches around numbly to pass Law a mug, who gives him a curt nod in reply.

“Do you remember being a kid?” Had he been any less tired, Penguin would have offered him a queer glance, but instead he simply drops his head to let it knock against Law’s shoulder, hair brushing soft over clammy, bare skin. He nuzzles a little into the black lines curving over the cut of bicep as Law presses both his palms into his mug, smearing porcelain with blood.

“O’ course I do,” another nuzzle, “All thanks to you, captain.” Law chuckles, glad that Penguin can’t see the private little smile he suspects graces his lips. 

“It’s just been a long time since I’ve dreamt of myself like that,” Law says, another private little instance that Penguin has enough sense to not respond to, pressing the soft skin of his ear to his captain’s arm with his yawning and stirring his tea absently.

He can't help himself, though. 

"You were kinda a little shit, weren't you?"

Law barks a quiet laugh. A _fu fu fu_ echoes somewhere in the back of his head.

**Author's Note:**

> I was really pleased with myself for that ending gvdhbjn. Just, the idea of Law and Doflamingo being lik **tha same** but _not_ is fun for me. Creepy little motherfuckers who flex their fingers too hard but lik. Law had Cora. Law be lik . knows love. 
> 
> Okay, I got off topic, lol. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed or anything! I really do appreciate it, more than you'd know.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


End file.
